Savage Little Games: Chapter 1

Dante Salvato sprawls in his booth like a king waiting to be served. I guess he is royalty in Vegas. He owns this casino where I serve cocktails, as well as dozens of other properties around the city. The man has more money and power than he knows what to do with. Not to mention he runs plenty of illegal underground businesses too. He has the type of law enforcement connections to make people disappear for good. Rumor has it that he’s killed at least three of his lovers when he grew bored with them and that he’ll put a bullet in the head of his own guards if he thinks they’re disloyal.

All I know for sure is that he’s technically my boss’s boss, and today, his current throne is the booth in my section of the casino lounge.

The other girls I work with love to wait on him. There have been literal catfights in the parking lot when someone snatched up his table when it was not in their section. Normally, I would pass him off to Georgia or Jessica, but I’m in desperate need of money. Despite all the blood on his tattooed hands, Salvato is a very generous tipper. Not that giving servers hundred-dollar bills for a couple glasses of booze makes up for all the violence.

“His Highness is waiting for you, Van,” Gavin, one of the casino’s male strippers, says as he finishes his nightly round of shots. It’s his ritual before he takes his clothes off for the screaming, greedy horde of women. “Hurry, before he decides to cut your heart out for wasting his precious time.”

“I’m going.” I sigh, then turn back to the pretty man, flashing him a small smile. “Hope you have a good night.”

“You, too.” He gives me his trademarked wink and grin that makes dollar bills rain down from the sky and slips a twenty onto the bar.

Pulling my long, straight blonde hair over the front of my shoulder to cover more of my face, I make my way over to the table. Salvato is sitting with two other men who are dressed in similar black suits to his own. One clearly looks like he’s also an Italian mobster, while the other has more of a blond-surfer-stuffed-into-the-suit vibe.

“Good evening, Mr. Salvato,” I say sweetly. I pull out my small notepad from my apron pocket, keeping my eyes down, using my hair to shield them from view. “What can I get you to drink?”

“A whiskey neat, scotch on the rocks, and an old-fashioned.” When Salvato finishes ordering for himself and his friends, I can’t help but peek up at the two men to make sure it’s what they actually want.

Neither glances away from the screens on their phones, though, while Salvato stares at my boobs. Usually, I try to avoid looking directly at him in such close proximity. His jet-black hair, constant five o’clock shadow, and glacial blue eyes are too much. He’s too much sitting down when only half of his big, muscular body is visible. When he stands up…well, it’s not fair that God gave this one man good looks, power, and money. No one stands a chance against him.

“That’ll be all for now, butterfly,” he eventually says to dismiss me.

Making my way back to the bar, I can’t decide if I like or hate the nickname that he bestowed on me years ago. One night, when I first started working here, he came in while I was wearing an open-back dress, revealing the tattoos running diagonally down my back. Sure, butterflies are beautiful, but they’re also fragile, which is probably what a man as physically and financially dominating as Dante Salvato sees when he leers at me. I’m five-foot nothing, one hundred and ten pounds, and a nobody waitress. I don’t even technically own the clothes on my body because I’m still paying off the interest for them on my credit cards.

My life is the complete opposite of Mr. Mafia King’s.

Today, I’m just glad Salvato didn’t look any closer at my face.

As soon as I blurt out the drinks to our bartender, James, he turns his back to me to get started on them. “You lucked up and hit the jackpot tonight.”

“So lucky,” I sarcastically agree, with my forearms braced on the bar counter. A warm tingle of awareness down my spine causes me to glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, Salvato’s eyes are still on my ass.

“Oh shit, Van,” James says when he slides the whiskey in front of me and peeks around to see the ogling man behind me. “He wants you bad.”

“He doesn’t want me. He just wants a tight hole to fuck.”

“Georgia said it was the best fuck of her life,” he responds.

“Who was the best fuck of my life?” The woman in question appears beside me, sweeping her long, wavy brown hair over her shoulder.

I tip my head in the direction of the dirty businessman.

“Oh, yeah,” she whispers. Biting her bottom lip, she lifts her fingers to wave at him. I bet my week’s paycheck he doesn’t even know her name, much less remember it from their “memorable” night. “He ruined sex for me. I would crawl on my hands and knees over hot coals just for another taste of his big dick.” Her heavy sigh as she gawks at him is pathetic. Georgia is just one woman in a million who he’s screwed and tossed aside. At least she survived him and is still breathing to tell the tale.

“I’ll take their drinks to them,” she offers when James finishes pouring the old-fashioned. “You can still have the tip, Van.”

“That’s okay. I can handle it.”

The smart move would be to accept her offer and reap the benefits without the work.

I shouldn’t want to be near him, to hear his sexist remarks as he gawks at me, but he’s the only man who even bothers trying to flatter me lately.

The truth is, while I will never give in and won’t ever encourage it, Salvato’s flirting makes me feel good about myself. Special. Someone like him doesn’t really want my thirty-six-year-old single mom body that’s never seen the inside of a gym. I know it’s all an act with him. He’s a horny, tenacious spider, weaving a beautiful web to draw women in so he can devour them. He wants what’s under my dress only because I will always deny him access.

Sliding the three glasses together between my hands, I pick them up and carry them to the table. My heart races, and my palms turn so sweaty I worry I may drop the glasses. Finally, I place the old-fashioned in front of Mr. Salvato’s seat in the booth, the scotch to his right, and the whiskey to his left.

Again, I’m practically invisible to the other two men who are still engrossed in their phones. But Dante grins up at me before he swaps the two drinks, putting the scotch in front of the blond and whiskey neat before the other mobster.

“Sorry,” I say. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Salvato?”

He doesn’t answer right away. No, he makes me stand there waiting nervously until he lifts his glass and takes a slow sip. Only when the bottom of his glass returns to the table does he speak. “You could come sit that fine ass of yours on my cock.”

“Jesus, Dante,” one of his companions mutters. The guy with his long, dirty blond hair tied out of his face sounds like he can’t believe he just said that. The other one just cackles loudly.

In any other workplace, Salvato’s words would be considered sexual harassment. Here, at , though, there is no human resources office. As my boss told me my first week, I put up with it because I’m a high school dropout with no skills whatsoever. The tips are nice, even when some of the customers get handsy.

In some alternate universe, I may even be stupid enough to climb on Salvato’s lap and ride him right here in the middle of his casino while his friends and everyone else watches. Just thinking about it has warmth pooling in my lower body. What can I say? I have an unfulfilled exhibitionist fetish. In real life, though, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror for being so weak and naïve.

Weak for letting a man have that kind of power and control over me. Naïve for believing I’m special and not like all the other women he’s used.

“As usual, I’ll have to respectfully decline, Mr. Salvato.”

“Did she just shoot you down, Dante?” the laughing man in the three-piece suit asks. He wipes away tears from under his brown eyes and says, “God, I’m so glad I got to be here to witness this historic occasion.”

Salvato glowers at his friend for a moment, then turns to me. His cobalt-blue eyes are gorgeous and dangerous all at the same time. Hot enough to burn you and cold enough to not care when he sets you on fire. I have absolutely no clue what’s going on in his head right now during the silence. “Titus has a point. You’re the only woman who has ever refused me. Why is that, butterfly?”

He’s never asked me for a reason before today, just threw out an offer and accepted my rejection with amusement. Tonight, though, he actually looks puzzled and…aggravated by my blatant refusal.

Shit. Time for damage control. The last thing I want is to anger the beast.

“Maybe I would consider it if I wasn’t currently seeing someone,” I explain, since calling Mitch my boyfriend when I’m rounding up to forty sounds ridiculous. It’s the best I can do to let the mob boss down easy.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Salvato says arrogantly, as if he knows him personally. One of his arms stretches out along the back of the booth as if offering me the place to curl up next to his side. “I would worship you, treat you like a fucking queen…”

“Queen for a day? No, thank you, Mr. Salvato.”

“Wow. Well said.” The blond friend who wasn’t cackling salutes me with his whiskey before swallowing every drop down. His handsome face is familiar, but he’s never spoken to me before. All I know is that wherever Dante goes, he goes.

“One of these days, when you finally say yes to me, you’re going to regret waiting for so long, butterfly,” Salvato remarks. He watches me over the rim of his glass as he takes another sip of his old-fashioned. With his arm still raised, his suit jacket gapes open. The top three buttons of his sky-blue button-down are undone to draw attention to his broad chest and gun in a shoulder holster. It’s easier than it should be to ignore it, to take in the rest of his upper body. There’s no tie in the way and the dress shirt is fitted to his flat stomach. He probably bought extra abs and has like ten of them hiding underneath the snug material.

I don’t bother disagreeing with him before I force my eyes to look away and retreat. Turning him down in front of his buddies could be enough to get me fired or killed on a bad day. There’s no point pouring gasoline on the fire by asserting that I will say yes to him. He could put a gun to my head and threaten to pull the trigger, but I would rather die than give in.

Even without the rumors of him murdering his lovers, men like Salvato don’t respect women. Never has, never will. He’ll spend his life moving from one willing victim to the next, using them and then throwing them away like garbage.

I have my hands full with Mitch as it is, thanks to the giant hole he recently dug himself into. The hole responsible for the extra two layers of concealer and foundation I had to use on my face today before I came into work. After a year together, I’m beginning to think it’s time for my worthless live-in boyfriend to hit the road.

“I get the feeling that she doesn’t like you very much,” Titus remarks with a shit-eating grin. “Wonder if I would have a better chance…”

“Fuck off.” If he wasn’t my friend and second-in-command, I’d be tempted to shoot him in his face.

At first, getting rejected by the tiny blonde cocktail waitress was amusing because I’d had all the other waitresses except her. Now, years later, her consistent rejection is annoying as fuck, leaving me frustrated, distracted even. Her weak-ass explanation doesn’t even make sense. I’m Dante fucking Salvato. Women have literally left their husbands to be with me for a night.

Of course, they all think that they’ll be the lucky winner who turns one night into two, and two nights into a diamond ring. They don’t realize that they would have a better chance of ice skating across the desert. Hell will freeze over before I marry anyone.

“Poor girl,” Eli says without sarcasm. “The last thing she needs tonight is the two of you trying to get in her panties.”

“What do you mean?” I ask him.

Ever since the MMA fighter forfeited his life to serve me last year, he goes where I go and does what I tell him to do. Lately, the thief seems to think that the forced proximity has made us friends.

We’re not.

He tried to steal millions from me, from my customers. Now I own him. He’s a reminder to anyone who may consider crossing me that there are some fates worse than death. Maybe he needs a reminder that I still hold his life literally in my hands.

“You didn’t see the bruises?” Eli asks.

“Bruises?”

“On her face. Her makeup and lipstick were thick, but I could see the black eye, the busted lip, the bruises on her throat—”

“Wait,” I interrupt him. “Who the fuck are you talking about?”

“The pretty little server who just rejected you,” Eli says simply.

“Eh, it was hard to see around her hair, but I think he’s right, boss,” Titus agrees.

I search the room for her, finding her forearms resting on the counter again, showing off her ass under her short, tight black dress. How the hell did I miss seeing bruises on her face, on her full pink lips? I know that face like the back of my hand. I always imagine those lips stretched around my cock whenever someone else is sucking it.

Who the hell would hurt her? She said she’s seeing someone. Was it her boyfriend? I’ll slice his hands off and shove them down his goddamn throat.

“Get your ass up,” I tell Eli. He immediately slides out of the oversized booth, allowing me to stand and head for the bar. My steps feel heavier than usual, like the rage in each of them could make the fucking floor shudder.

The bartender sees me coming and freezes with a rag in his hand. His face goes a shade lighter. “Ca-can I help you, Mr. Salvato?”

She, however, doesn’t see me coming. Hell, I don’t even know her first name. When she peers over her shoulder, I’m inches away, towering over her. She has to tip her head back to see my face because I’m at least a foot and a half taller than her—even though she’s in heels.

“Bathroom. Now.”

“Uh, what?” Her wide, emerald-green eyes shift from me to the bartender, who shrugs. While her face is turned away, I finally see the shadow underneath her left eye, down around the side of her nose. And fuck, I can already smell the blood of the person who hit her.

At first, I don’t understand why she hasn’t moved her ass to do what I fucking told her to do. When I speak, people listen. The choices are either comply or die. Usually.

Finally, I hear her gasp. It’s not the good kind, either. It’s the sound men make before they beg for their lives. It only takes me a moment to realize her train of thought. She must be assuming that I’m tired of her refusing me and will take what I want from her. She’s such a little thing I could easily scoop her up with one hand and carry her wherever I please. My dick likes that idea a whole hell of a lot. My head reminds me that there are probably more bruises I can’t see, and picking her up would hurt her. The heads of whoever laid hands on her are going to literally roll.

“You’re going to wash that makeup off, and then we’re going to talk,” I explain to her through my clenched teeth to try and ease her worry. Does she actually think I would force myself on her? Jesus. I get everything I want or need from willing women. Well, all except for her.

She winces when she finally realizes what this is about and looks relieved for about half a second. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Salvato. I tried to cover the bruises up so customers wouldn’t see them.”

“Are you apologizing to me for someone busting up your face?”

“Yes,” she answers softly, but with conviction.

This conversation is her real voice, not the fake sugary one she uses when taking drink orders, using sir or “Mr. Salvato.” And now I really want to hear her chanting that same word over and over again when she’s underneath me before I make her scream my name. My first name, not that proper boss bullshit. I want her coming under me screaming, “

” at the top of her lungs.

Shit. My dick is always trying to distract me from handling business. I’ve purchased 737s, sports cars, and penthouses I don’t want or need all for one end goal—pussy. I have a feeling that all those things together wouldn’t even be enough to persuade the waitress.

And that certainty drives me fucking crazy.

“You’re not in trouble, butterfly,” I assure her, trying not to take my anger out on her. “We can talk in the bathroom down here or up in my office. Your choice.”

She gives me a tight nod and then starts walking to the right toward the women’s bathroom. I follow her inside. The fluorescent lights are brighter than the sun, which is why I wanted to see her face underneath them.

Without having to repeat myself, I wait with my arms crossed over my chest, leaning on the door frame as she grabs some towels, wets them under the faucet, and gently scrubs her face. I count every wince from the bruises for payback later. There are four of them. Her bottom lip is noticeably swollen, without any color on it.

“Put your hair up,” I tell her when her face is bare, still beautiful, just a little damaged. Her eyes narrow slightly at my order, but she doesn’t argue with me or look at me before piling her light blonde hair up in a messy knot on the top of her head.

When she turns to face me, I glide closer to her. Close enough to touch, but I don’t. The marks are even worse than they were in the mirror’s reflection. Dark bruises. Recent ones. It’s like my past has come back to haunt me, but at least this woman is still alive.

Someone fucking choked her and punched her in her delicate face at least twice. I may break men’s jaws, noses, and every other bone regularly, but seeing that kind of damage on an innocent woman’s beautiful face makes my stomach turn. I want to do something to make it better, I just don’t know what.

“Is this all of the bruises?” I ask. Her bowed head shakes side to side. I fucking knew it. I want to demand to see every single one, but I know she’ll refuse if I ask. “Who did this to you? Your piece of shit boyfriend?”

“No. He wouldn’t hurt me,” she answers as her palm comes up to gently touch the right side of her ribs. Most likely, some are bruised underneath her dress. If her boyfriend didn’t keep her safe, then he’s still a piece of shit.

“Then who was it?”

“I-I don’t know their names.”

Plural. Jesus.

“Was this a random act of violence or was it done on purpose?”

“On purpose,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Look, Mr. Salvato, I’m sorry I didn’t cover them up better, but I had to come into work. I need the money. I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

She’s right. I didn’t notice. I was too busy staring at her tits and ass. If Eli hadn’t mentioned it, I would’ve never known.

“Do you owe someone money?” I ask, since that’s the number one reason for a beating by strangers in this town.

“No.

don’t owe anyone.”

“Who does, then? Your boyfriend?”

“Yes.” It’s barely a whisper, but it tells me everything I need to know.

“Who does he owe, and how much?”

Shaking her head, she says, “I honestly don’t know, but I’m guessing some mobster like you.”

“It sure as fuck wasn’t my men.”

“Well, I was in the dark, too, until last night when two goons came into the apartment and ransacked it, demanding their payment. He didn’t have it, or anything else of value for them to take, so they did this to motivate Mitch.” She glances up, eyes wide, as if she didn’t intend to give me his name.

“Mitch what?” When she holds my gaze, jaw clenched tight, refusing to open her mouth, I tell her, “I’ll find out one way or another.”

“Fine. Mitch McKinny. But it’s not his fault!”

“Oh, I’m sure it his fucking fault,” I tell her. And he’s going to pay for it. “Get your things. You’re coming upstairs with me.”

“What? Why?”

I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do yet, but I have to do something. Any plans I had tonight no longer matter. Figuring this shit out, making sure nobody hurts her again, is now my priority.

“Call your boyfriend. Tell him to get his ass down here now. I’ll be waiting for you by the elevator bank.”

“I don’t…I should get back to work! James and Georgia can’t—” she starts, but I interrupt her.

“I don’t give a fuck about James or Georgia.” Shit. I don’t even know her name. For years, I’ve lusted after her and only ever called her butterfly because of the dainty ink on her back. “I want to know your name.”

“Vanessa.”

“Vanessa what?”

“Vanessa Brooks.”

I’m not sure why, but I’d bet my left nut that’s not the name she was born with. People don’t blurt their names out that damn fast unless they’re made up and they have to practice using them.

“Go get your things. Don’t keep me waiting, ,” I tell her before I turn around, jerk the bathroom door open, and walk out.

I want to know everything there is to know about Vanessa Brooks and Mitch McKinny. Then, I’m going to figure out a way to keep her safe and make her mine.